Gemotions

The box of orchids had arrived at the office, a stark contrast to the utilitarian gray of the cubicle farm. He wanted to scream. John’s jaw was locked, his molars grinding together. He grabbed a pen, the plastic cold against his palm, and stabbed at the cardboard box. The floral arrangement, a flamboyant display of purple and white, was pure poison. He wanted to hurl them across the room, to smash the delicate blooms into a million pieces. The silence in the office was deafening. He considered calling HR, or maybe the police. The unknown was a physical weight on his chest.